


Vera Lynn sang it best

by Shen_Gong_Oops



Series: chopped fics [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Historical, F/M, Golden Age of Piracy, Major character death - Freeform, Mistaken Identity, Soulmates, Soulmates can see each other heartbeats on their wrists, Tudor England, World War II, but they lowkey immortal so not really?, for like three whole seconds but Bellamy is confused for Captain Sam Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 19:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21433165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shen_Gong_Oops/pseuds/Shen_Gong_Oops
Summary: Don’t know when, don’t know where, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day- We'll Meet Again, Vera Lynn.Legend says that if you were lucky enough to be born with a soulmate, you’ll never truly die. You and your other half will be reborn countless times. But a person never truly knows if someone was their soulmate. At least, not until the heartbeat on their wrist flat lines.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: chopped fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537135
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64
Collections: Chopped 2.0 Final Round





	Vera Lynn sang it best

**Author's Note:**

> Final Round Tropes
> 
>   1. Reincarnation
>   2. Soulmates
>   3. Forehead touches
>   4. Free Space
> 
> For my Free Space I chose “One character has a child” and because I’m apparently a masochist I’m making myself use all four tropes in all three incarnations.
> 
> This ship is not creative or unique but I am useless Bellarke trash so. At least there is no word limit this time :)
> 
> The title is in reference to the song mentioned twice in the 1943 section, _We'll Meet Again_ which was originally sung by Vera Lynn. It was one of the most popular songs during WW2.
> 
> Guess who is such a mess this week that they deleted their fic because they thought they did it wrong?  
  


  


* * *

**1538**

She abhorred court, always had. Hated the ostentatious attires, the overly extravagant parties, the way the people's money afforded their lifestyle. And the constant traveling throughout the country. If the king decided he wanted to reside at his summer palace, the court upheaved their lives to follow the royal family. And the corsets, pray she loathed the corsets. Over the past several months, she had been granted a reprieve from the prying eyes of those in court. Though she could only imagine the gossip on which she would return. Her husband Lord Collins was found dead in his bed chamber accompanied by one of their maids while she and their sons spent the fortnight visiting her mother. Helping her get the manor back in order after her father’s passing.

The worst only yet to come if someone were to find the heartline still beating on her wrist instead of a faint, flat line. She could only imagine them chirping about the affair. The same people who said the Lord and Lady Collins made a smart match would now be speaking ill behind her back. Saying Clarke had been the one to seduce Lord Collins. That she was the harlot preventing him from finding his perfect half. His affair was inevitable. While she may not have been his soulmate, she believed herself to be a dutiful wife.

She provided him with a son within a year of marriage and then a little over a year later!

Entering into her private breakfast nook of the Hampton Court Palace, she took notice of the head groom of her household standing in the far corner speaking with one of the palace maids. The maid locked eyes with Clarke briefly before directing her gaze downwards. Concluding their conversation, the maid quickly shot out through one of the hidden doors in the wall, leaving Clarke and her groom alone.

The groom walked over to the table in the center of the room, pulling out the plush chair for her. Several small plates with sausages and eggs littered the table. A single tea cup sat on the right of the platters. “Lady Collins.”

Lavish, it was all quite lavish. “Good morning.” she muttered, dropping unceremoniously into her seat. A small chuckle could be heard from the groom, who quickly covered up the noise by clearing his throat. She had told him time and time again that she did not care much for proper behavior. If he wished to laugh in her presence then he should damn well laugh. But the Collins family instilled in their staff that they were the help and nothing more. The head groom and the head maid being the only ones they would willingly address. Though even that was simply for business. The head groom and the head maid were in charge of the household.

“I have been informed the court is buzzing with excitement for your awaited return.” She looked up at him over the teacup’s rim, watching as he stood stiffly. She always hated that the Collins made him slick back his hair after promoting him to head groom. She preferred the loose dark curls. Apparently as did his hair. She loved running into him towards the afternoon, when he would be trying to mat down the hairs revolting against the oils. Honestly, it was one of her favorite parts of the day, watching him steal fleeting moments in front of a mirror to tame his hair. Yet everytime he tucked a curl down, another would spring free.

Had she not told him he was free to wear his hair as he wished? She thought she had but these last few months blurred together. Caught between mourning and wishing she had been the one to kill her husband. A year prior during a holiday in Hungary, she caught wind of her husband and a few fellow lords slipping into an establishment housing working girls. She yelled for three hours until her throat became raw and her voice a meer whisper about decorum and the dishonor it would bring the Collins name - more specifically her name but she forgoed saying that - if he were to be caught attending a brothel while she sat unawares in their chambers reading a story to their son.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the warmed china of the cup. “Ma’am?”

“I apologize, what were you saying?”

The groom’s hands twitched at his sides, “It may not be my place but I am sure you have heard the news of the late queen consort.”

Everyone in England has heard of the ill-fate of Jane Seymour. The kingdom rejoicing upon the birth of the future king of England Edward VI. Unbeknownst to the exuberant crowd, the queen consort took ill. Quietly passing twelve days after bearing the king a son. A gentle woman the queen consort was. She had been one of the few in court to not focus on her husband’s affair. To express genuine condolences to a recent widow. She passed during Clarke’s period of mourning. How Clarke wished someone had informed her of the queen consort’s health - she would have visited Hampton Court Palace sooner. “Why do you ask?”

He shifted uncomfortably, dark eyes darting back towards the hidden door where the maid escaped. “The maids informed me that the king is seeking someone to join him in his chambers tonight.”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke began cutting into one of the sausage links. The king always looked for someone to join him in his chambers. He became betrothed to Jane Seymour the day after his second wife Anne Boleyn’s execution. But why would he- she dropped the knife from her hand, the metal clattering loudly against the china of the dish. “And why pray tell are you bringing this up?”

“Ma’am, if it is not too bold. The king wishes for you to-”

“That is too bold.” She shot from her seat, the chair toppling to the ground her haste. Her husband had been buried for just a few months. His queen consort was buried less than a month prior. He already sought a new bedmate? “How did you come across this information?”

With a curt bow, the groom began to back away from the table. "I have been informed that the king intends to send his own maids to your dressing chambers to aide you in preparing for the feast tonight. Excuse me your ladyship, for I must instruct your maids on their new development."

He took three steps towards the door before Clarke spoke. "Goodman Blake that does not explain how you know the king's desires."

She always loved how expressive his eyes were. She could not count how many times she sat on the balcony of her bedchambers back at the manor, watching him guide the other staff. Helping them ready the lawn, prepare the dining room. The charcoal in her hands flying across the pages trying to capture each expression. Those papers hidden under lock and key in her bed chambers never to be seen be her now late husband or any of her maids.

His jaw clenched tightly, "I cannot properly perform my duties if I do not know everything that occurs on the Collins' manor similar to how the Grooms of the Privy Chamber cannot perform theirs."

He learned from gossip amongst the servants. Someone in the king's privy chambers had disclosed the king’s secrets. Those with whom the king found himself intimately acquainted, daresay even friends with, regaling other servants of lower rank with the king's desires. If this information truly came from one of the Grooms of the Privy Chamber, Goodman Blake's information had to be true. They knew almost everything there was to know of the king. The lower servants passing along the gossip until it reached the ears of her own grooms.

Had information in her own household passed around in a similar fashion? Had the domestic servants gossiped just so? Goodman Blake knew of everything that happened on their manor before she or her husband had. Half the time, he fixed the situation before they were informed of the matter. If he knew everything that happened, did he know of her husband's extramarital affairs?

When she voiced this question, she watched the sorrow in his eyes. He did. "I told her to end the tryst. That no good could come from their relations. I thought she listened to me, and she did for a few months. Their one night a distant memory. Then you traveled up to Durham to aide your distraught mother and their tryst resumed. I scolded her once more but there was nothing I could do. I could not bring the affair up to Lord Collins."

He pulled at the collar of his suit jacket, "I told her upon your return I would come clean of the affair and she-" Goodman Blake's face flushed pink, "never mind what she said. I planned to tell you of the affair. I planned to hide the fact that he died in bed with a maid to avoid a scandal. Sadly, Lord Jordan and Duke Green found them before I did."

Her dear friends Jasper and Monty stopped by to surprise her unknowing that she went to visit her parents. They did the best they could to prevent the news from spreading but there were two bodies found in her husband's bed chamber. One of which was not his wife.

Was it cruel that she cried tears of relief when the heartbeat on her rest still pulsed after she heard the news? That her husband had not been her soulmate.

She knew she and her husband were not bonded. The second time she went into labor, she caught a quick glimpse of his pale wrist prior to them being separated for the birth. The heart beating at a normal pace as opposed to her frantic one. Whomever his soulmate had been, they were not in labor at that moment.

Which made the affairs following the stillbirth of their third son slightly easier to grasp. She and her husband were not destined for one another. Maybe he tried to find the one, maybe he even succeeded.

"I do not wish to be the king's plaything." She stated, walking towards her chambers. "No need to address my maids. They will dress me as they usually do."

She had not missed the smirk on the groom's features as she left the breakfast nook to wake her sons.

\---

She truly abhorred court.

She spent half of the time avoiding having a conversation one on one with the king, Goodman Blake's words repeating over and over in her head. The king wanted her to warm his bed. Probably because she bore her husband two sons in under three years. And her breasts were on the larger side, even in a bloody corset you could tell.

The other half she spent avoiding overhearing the courtiers gossiping about her scandalous life.

She had not been the one to have the affair. She had not been the one found dead with their lover, but she may as well have.

The material of the dress felt too heavy, weighing down on her. She could not breathe. She needed to get out of there. Duke Wallace and his son approached her, the elder's hand out in greeting. Lord Wallace still in search for a wife, as the Duke had pointed out in their few short correspondences sent during her time away from court. She would go from Lady Griffin, to Lady Collins, to Lady Wallace if Dante had his way. Or from Lady Griffin, to Lady Collins, to Clarke Griffin queen consort if the king had his.

And she, she just wished to be Clarke. No title, no importance. Just Clarke.

The music shifted. The beat seductive, tantalizing even. The Wallaces froze in their pursuit when the king rose from his throne, traveling across the hall towards her. Her eyes quickly darted towards the exits but the large doors happened to be behind the king. If she wished to exit, she needed to pass him and ran the risk of being asked to dance.

Her heart sped, beating faster than the music. She did not want to be the king's fourth wife. She did not want to be anyone's wife.

That was when her savior came in the form of her groom. He reached her first, the king only halfway across the hall. "Milady, the maids and I have been trying in vain to settle young master Wells. He woke," her youngest was a perfect sleeper. Once he falls asleep, he would not wake again until morning, "and refuses to sleep until he sees you."

Goodman Blake was giving her the chance to flee.

At this point the king had come within hearing range, asking her where she would be going. The king's dark eyes turned to glare upon her groom. "My dear Wells is having difficulties sleeping. He does not do well in places that are not Collins Manor if I am not there with him." She dropped into a suitable curtsey, a look of sorrow falsely etched onto her features, "I apologize your grace, but I must take my leave. My son needs me, you understand do you not?"

"Of course. I will come by to check on you and your sons later."

She quickly stood from her curtsey, hands flattening against the material of the dress in haste. "No your majesty," her voice slightly raised in panic. Taking a breath, she tried to still her nerves, "you needn't worry after us. I plan to retire to my chambers after settling Wells. My return to court has been stimulating and I believe it is time to retire for the night."

He looked taken back at her comment. Probably not expecting to be rejected._ I am king, everyone wishes to sleep with the king _, he probably thought. "Until morning then."

"Until morning." She reiterated, following after her groom. He quietly opened the doors for her, leading her into the dimly lit corridor. "Thank you." She whispered, "I did not wish to bed the king."

Her groom said nothing. Continued down the hall towards the stairs leading to her suite on the second floor. "Wells remains asleep, though I have the feeling you already knew that."

She knew her babies. Wells could sleep through a war.

Jacob on the other hand was notorious for waking up in the middle of the night and venturing through the manor. Typically accompanied by their groom who silently watched over the four year old.

"Milady." Goodman Blake said, opening the door to her bed chamber, "I will check on Wells and Jacob. I know the day has been grueling for you."

Once the door shut firmly, her maids began undressing her. Pulling at the lace of her corset, removing her petticoats, brushing out her tight curls. They coaxed her into a warm awaiting bath. Aiding Clarke as she climbed into the outlandish golden tub. She wanted out of the court. Out of England. She never wanted to part of the courtiers - sadly, her parents were beloved in court. That's how she captured the eye of Finn's parents, Lord and Lady Collins. How they agreed she would be a handsome match for their bachelor son. Too bad their hadn't felt the need to warn her of his philandering ways when things took a turn for the worst. She married whom she believed to be an honest man. Wore a fake smile each day she begrudgingly attended court and had to listen to those fighting for the king's affection. For the coveted Groom of the Stool position.

Why people vied to hold the king's cock as he pissed was beyond her. But courtiers were truly a class of their own.

"Do you think the king will grant me leave from court permanently? Or maybe I should just run away." She mumbled absentmindedly, fingers trailing over the surface of the water. She had not been designed for court. The eyes on her constantly. The unnecessary need to look prim and proper from sun up to well into the night. Through the ornate mirror hanging on the wall opposite her, Clarke watched as the two maids looked at each other. Silently questioning whether they should speak. "Whatever you must say, please say it."

The younger of the two maids stilled. Her hands coming to rest on Clarke's shoulders. "We know of a person who can get you safe passage out of England."

"Maya," the older maid snapped, "hush you insolent-"

Clarke raised a hand to silence the other. "No, please continue."

The maid Maya ran a soapy hand over her frizzy braid. She looked almost as if she would not speak. "Your head groom. He smuggled his sister to Brussels. During the night, he quickly and quietly got her out of England."

Goodman Blake had a sibling? She rose in the bath, the water splashing about and lapping onto the stone floor. "Could he get me out of here?"

The elder of the two maids had a murderous glare in her eyes but the younger silently nodded. “If you wish to leave England, Goodman Blake is your best hope."

\---

After the maids assisted her into a flimsy nightgown that was not her own and set her hair into a loose braid, they bid her goodnight. The bed having been turned down prior to her bath. She glared in the mirror at the offending article of clothing they presented her with. Probably a gift from his majesty that he expected to peel off of her that evening. The thin material concealed nothing. The gown more improper than something should would have worn in the presence of her late husband. Grabbing a light overcoat to drape over herself, Clarke slipped through the doors to her chambers. Tiptoeing passed several sealed doors to where Goodman Blake would reside. Gently she knocked against the wooden door, eyes shifting to either ends of the hallway. She need not another scandal. But she heard no movement on the other end. Where had her groom gone?

Quietly, she slipped down the hall to the room where Wells and Jacob slept. If Jacob were up, he more than likely roped poor Goodman Blake into traversing Hampton Court Palace with him. Mapping out every nook and cranny. Opening the door she noticed Wells curled tightly into his blanket, one foot picking out. She gently adjusted the blanket to cover the babe properly. The other bed in the room was bare.

Adventure it was.

She found the pair in the kitchens. Goodman Blake preparing a small snack for her son. She had almost forgotten Goodman Blake had been a cook at Collins Manor prior to being appointed head groom. Back when she and Finn began courting. Her child sat on the counter chatting animatedly about something. The sleeves of Goodman Blake's thin cotton nightshirt pushed up to his elbows. Jacob hushed for a moment. Then pointed at something. "What is that?"

Goodman Blake's movements stilled. His eyes casting down towards his left wrist. A moment passed and then another before he spoke. "The heartbeat of my soulmate." He glanced down once more with a faint smile, "Looks as if she is awake still."

Jacob stood up on the counter, causing Goodman Blake to drop his utensils. Hands coming up to wrap around the child’s waist. "No, we said sit remember. This is not our manor." Her heart did not flutter at the mention of 'our manor' rather than him saying 'his manor' or 'your manor', it did not. "The king does not like little feet on his kitchen counter."

Her son made a noise of protest but ultimately returned to sitting on the counter surface. "What is that? Others said mum and daddy were not." Her dear child had heard that, had he? He was not even five years of age, he did not need to hear such petty chatter.

Goodman Blake smiled, eyes darting down to his wrist once more. "I will tell you but only if you agree to a story."

"Yes!" Jacob cheered, tossing his hands into the air, "Story!"

Goodman Blake let out a chuckle, resuming preparing the late night snack. "The Greeks believed-"

Jacob raised his small pointer finger to emphasize his point. "They are always Greek."

"That is not true, sometimes I tell you stories of Romans." Jacob let out a faux annoyed huff but looked up to Goodman Blake expectantly. "The Greeks believed that humans were born with four legs, four arms, and one head with two faces. Zeus-"

"Zeus is rude." Jacon interrupted with a pout.

Goodman Blake chuckled once more, "Very true. He feared the power humans had and separated them, tearing them in two." Her son's face looked horrified, "Apollo, empathic towards the pain the humans felt healed them as best he could. But ultimately humans only truly healed by finding their lost other half." Goodman Blake held up his wrist for her son to examine, "This helps guide us to our missing half."

Jacon prodded at their groom's wrist quietly, his fingers miming the heartbeat pulsing. "Have you found your other half?"

Goodman Blake stood pensieve for a moment, silently platting her son’s snack. “I believe I have.”

Jacob’s eyes widened, his voice excited. “Are you going to marry them?”

She watched the forelong look appear on Goodman Blake’s handsome features. Eyes sorrowful. “Not everyone marries their soulmate. Sometimes people, like your parents,” Goodman Blake said, two fingers raising to rest against her son’s forehead, “fall in love with someone who is not their soulmate. You are proof of that.

“Sometimes you are destined to simply be there for the other person. As a friend, supporting them through everything.”

Jacon looked to be thinking everything over. Small fingers reaching out to pick at the plate in front of him. “Will you be there for your soulmate?”

“I will.”

Jacob glanced down at his bare wrist, lips tugging into a pout. “I do not have one.”

“Not everyone does.” Her parents had not been soulmates either. Both their wrists barren of a heartbeat. Their lives could to a conclusion upon their deaths. Clarke and her exclusive soulmate would be reborn again and again. Her wrist a mark of immortality. She may not meet her soulmate in this life but she may meet them in the next. Sadly, neither of her sons were born with a heartbeat. Glancing down at her own wrist, Clarke watched the slow, easy beat. Would she be as lucky as Goodman Blake and find her other half in this lifetime?

\---

She sat in her sons’ chambers awaiting Goodman Blake and Jacob’s return. Would he smuggle them out of England? Could he do it before morning? If he could smuggle them, how far could they go?

The door slowly opened. Goodman Blake carrying a sleeping Jacob into the room. He startled noticing her seated near the window. “Are you alright Lady Collins?”

She never wished to be called Lady Collins again. She stood from the bench under the windowsill, the back of her hand brushing through her son’s hair. “I have been informed that you are capable of getting someone out of England quickly and quietly.” She did not remove her gaze from her son but she could make out Goodman Blake’s body stiffening. “Helped your sister get to Brussel overnight.”

“Spain.” She looked up at him questioningly, “When the cruel ape that fathered her came hunting Octavia down, I found passage for her to Spain.” 

Maya told her Brussels, no?

“I hid her in a convent for about a decade. Received letters everyday informing me how much she loathed being there.” He had lied to the staff. Probably to protect Octavia. Told them she was sent to Brussels but really he smuggled her into Spain.

They stood silently in the darkness of her sons’ bed chamber. A thin sliver of moonlight casting into the room. “My contacts are limited ma’am. I can get you to Palos, Spain, maybe as far as Cairo.”

She would not mind living in Cairo. She read a few ancient texts of Cleopatra during her lessons. The weather had to be more tolerable than that of England’s. Looking up at Goodman Blake, she watched as he thought something over. Teeth pulling at his lips. “I may be able to get you to Port Royale. Octavia works for a shipping company in Palos. She handles manifests.”

“Can you get us out before morning?”

Goodman Blake moved about the room, gently placing her son onto his bed. “Possibly but there will be repercussions.”

She opened her mouth ready to challenge him. If they made it to Palos, Cairo, or even Port Royale there could be no repercussions. She would take on a new name for herself and her sons. The court obvious as to where they vanished. But before she could say anything, she realized what Goodman Blake meant. The repercussions would not be for her. If she faded into the wind, she would walk away clean but the one who helped her leave court without the approval of the king. She could not imagine what they would do to him.

“You could come with us.” She said, “See your sister again.”

Even in the darkness, she could see his eyes alight at the idea. Lips curling into a soft smile. “I have not seen Octavia since that night. It would be lovely to see her again.”

“What about your soulmate?” Clarke asked quietly. As lovely as it would be for him to come with them to Palos, or Cairo, or Port Royale, his soulmate was here. If he helped her leave, he faced untold dangers but if her left with their family, he left his soulmate behind.

Goodman Blake’s eyes met hers in the darkened room. Large, warm hands coming up to grasp hers. “I feel she would be fine with this.”

\---

That morning at breakfast, the king and his court anticipated the arrival of Lady Clarke Collins. But she never showed. Palace guards hurriedly rushing through the corridors trying to find whatever happened to the Lady and her sons. No one knowing that a woman by the name of Clarke Blake had boarded a ship to Palos, Spain that afternoon. And in a few months time, none would know the woman established a small inn and tavern in Port Royale, Jamaica. Her sister-in-law their jovial barkeep who would teach them Spanish whenever she could. Her husband the cook for their business.

No one the wiser to her small family growing as the years went on. Or to her success at a life outside the court.

\---

**1723**

She was married off by seventeen, bore a child at eighteen, fell in love with the sea at nineteen, and lost her vessel by twenty-three.

The _ Proxima _ was a mighty ship. One of the fastest in all the Caribbean, nay the fastest. It has been hers for a year and a half after the previous captain Diyoza retired after amassing quite the bounty. And a baby. Before the woman stepped away from the world of piracy, she bequeathed the _ Proxima _ to Clarke.

But then her crew committed a mutiny. Marooning her on a small island north of Tortuga. Too far to swim and the island too scarce in resources for ships to dock at. The island was more a sandbar than an actual island. Felt that at any moment the land would wash away into the sea. Her crew granted her a half empty bottle of rum. Michael Vinson snuck a small compass onto her person to “guide her way home” and a means to repay Abigail Griffin for aiding in his escape.

(Her mother had not. She simply delayed Vinson's transfer to a penal colony in order to nurse him back to good health. Abigail Griffin could not have predicted the jail cell would be liberated by pirates. Or that Vinson would willingly join them.)

She wanted her ship back dammit. Captain Paxton McCreary would burn in hell with the rest of the crew for their transgressions. 

She meandered her way through crowded streets of Tortuga, towards one of the taverns in hopes of finding a ship to sail with. The small merchant ship that rescued her - after the hull of their ship lodged into an actual sandbar not too far from the small island -would not fare the dangerous seas she would navigate to recapture her vessel. An actual sandbar, not a meager excuse for an island. She bartered passage in exchange for the few pieces of coins she had on her person. Her crew knew where on her body she kept her weapons, they had not searched her elsewhere. 

To reclaim her ship, she needed a daring crew with a speedy vessel. What better place than the pirate haven?

\---

How she loathed superstitious pirates. The best part of sailing with a crew of convicts, none believed in the wishy washy mumbo jumbo of superstitions. Now she had to traverse through drunken hoards to find someone willing to take her on.

There ended up being only one daring enough to sail with a female aboard.

He sat near the back of the bar, huddled around a small wooden table. His face half illuminated from the lanterns above. A lady of the night had whispered to her excitedly that he was Captain Bellamy. Hoping he, or one of his crew, would pay her handsomely. Clarke's eyebrow perched in confusion. Had people believed his fallacies? To her credit, the woman did mention the male was more tanned and his hair shorter than she imagined. 

While she herself had never might Captain Bellamy, he was a fellow captain. They had an innate kinship. Yet this hooligan dared tread on the name of a fallen captain. Parading around as a pirate for who knows what.

She stalked across the tavern, boots sloshing through the small film of ale coating the floor. The liar and those surrounding threw back their heads in laughter. One of the males at the table, looked up at her with a drunken smile. His greeting was interrupted by a loud hiccup.

"Good evening." She said tursly, gaining the attempt of the fake captain. "I would never imagine you perished five years prior off the coast of one of the colonies. You look so lively. Connecticut was it?"

The male's back straightened as his group turned almost comically to gaze at her agog. "Happened off the coast of Massachusetts actually." The ghost of a smile lay on his lips.

"You continue to lie?"

His friends found her hysterical. The group cackling into their mugs of ale. "I have done no such thing."

She wanted to slap him. She hated mutineers, especially if they were of her own crew, but she hated those who were dishonest just as much. Made her social circles quite small. Dishonesty was a common trait in her line of work. "You are _ Captain Bellamy _ are you not?"

The male raised his tankard to his lips slowly. He stalled for too long that she almost repeated her question. As placed the mug back down onto the table, the sleeve of his shirt slid allowing her to see the tanned skin below. A raised patch of marred skin bore the brand of a pirate. Her eyes widened, he was a pirate. Then why did he hide behind someone else's name?

Glancing back down at the brand, she noticed the positioning was off. She had yet to see a brand directly placed onto the wrist. Where a heartline would have been if he had a soulmate. Never would he see the heartbeat. Probably part of his punishment. 

A finger trailed up the side of the mug, catching a small droplet of water. "I am a captain and I am named Bellamy. Though my ship is called the _ Damocles _ and my surname is Blake." He turned to face her, eyebrow raised in challenge. "I never lied, it's that no one looks further. They assume what they wish." Captain Bellamy… Blake of the _ Damocles _.

"He looks nothing like Captain Sam Bellamy." One of his friend quipped, causing the others to crack up in laughter once more. Captain Blake let out a half-smile.

She had made the same assumption as the rest. Exception hers included an addition notion of perjury. She more likely than not offended the male within minutes of meeting him, acting under the guise of ousting him. 

"I need passage. To my ship." She blurted out. She already made a fool of herself may as well add to it. "I will pay you well for your troubles." She forced a smile onto her face, the same ones she spent eighteen years of her life hiding behind in polite society. 

One of his friends, the one with the angular face, forcefully pounded the base of his tankard onto the wooden table. "It's bad luck for a woman to be aboard a ship." The smile fell from her face.

The captain placed his hands atop to table, lazily pushing himself from his seat. "But you also have a golden hoop, which counteracts the bad luck." She watched as the four became deep in thought. The tallest of the group even began counting the fingers on one hand. "As you know, it is bad luck to not finish your ale. Therefore if the lot of you finish your drink, we'll have amassed more good luck than any bad luck she may bestow."

"I am a scientist. That is correct!" Said the smallest.

He nodded for her to follow him as he approached the bar. Weaving easily between the drunken patrons. She followed quickly behind, pushing her way through the masses. "I hadn't heard the ale superstition before."

He turned on his heel, smiling brightly at her. "Now that was a lie." He flagged down the barkeep to pour them both a drink. He slid the tankard gently towards her across the wooden bartop. "How handsomely will we be paid?"

"Help me retrieve my ship and you can have your weight in gold." She tipped the rim of her mug against his, "Help me retrieve my ship before it reaches India, you can name your price."

\---

She waited a little over a week before she inquired about the branding. In her existence, she had only met two other people with a heartline. Both of which found each other - though whether they were truly each other's match was questionable. She spent so long only hearing fairy tales and ghost stories about the heartline. Her peers looking on with envy. To her face they presented excited fronts at the idea that Clarke had someone out there destined to stand beside her. To be there for her through it all. Behind her back, the jealousy reared its ugly head.

Meeting Captain Blake had been a blessing. Finally, she met someone untethered to another person. Someone else experiencing the unknown.

Did he still feel a connection to his soulmate? Did the area still beat if the skin around it was destroyed? Did he miss seeing the consistent rising and falling? Did he still experience the calming sensation of knowing they were out there and alive?

Bellamy never answered any of her questions. At least not in that moment. He raised the marred skin into the light of the morning sun. Twisting his wrist minutely, almost as if trying to find the visible heartbeat under the burned skin. With a wink, and a horrible one at that, he retreated back to the helm of the ship relieving his first mate Miller.

She believed she had offended the male once more; resigning herself to eat dinner in the small bunk Bellamy provided below deck amongst the crew. That was until Monty stopped her on line for supper. He gave her a warm smile, gently taking her hands in his. He lightly tugged her from the line, eagerly talking about something in his star charts. Never once did he stop to explain where they were going or why but she understood the moment they reached the ladder to leading to the deck.

The Captain's Quarters.

More often than not, Bellamy would dine with the crew. Enjoying in the merriment and the flowing ale. But there were nights he chose to dine in his quarters. Holed up with his maps and documents.

That evening he opted for the quiet of his chambers and invited her to join him.

Monty continued chatting up until he opened the large wooden doors. He briefly acknowledged his captain, reminding him of the falling stars that night before slipping away.

Bellamy stood beside the large bay windows staring out at the ocean behind them. The setting bathing the room in a beautiful glow, reflecting off the dark blue surface of the water.

"You had a lot of questions." He started, eyes still looking dramatically out at the world they left behind for India. Prior to their mutiny, she and her crew came to an accord. They would sail across the ocean, across the world. Raid those in the spice trade. She preferred to take the ships of merchants embarking from India. More goods readily available for the long voyage home. That is where McCreary would take her ship. Bellamy turned from the window, leaning back against the glass panes. "Hopefully, I can answer a few. Quid pro quo of course."

Atop the long dining room table sat a bottle of rum. The liquid constantly in motion from the gentle rocking of the ship.

"What was your first question again?" He dropped unceremoniously into the large, plush chair at the head of the table. The wood of the seat not matching the wood of the table. In fact the other five chairs around the table looked to be different as well.

She had no need to think it over. The questions repeating in her head the length of the day. Reminding her of the time she should have kept her mouth shut. She had first asked if he still felt a connection to his soulmate. Her could feel her heart sped up as her earlier embarrassment reappeared.

She almost missed Bellamy's other hand come up to cover where his heartline would have been. Fingers pressing lightly against his wrist. “I do still feel the connection,” he muttered, eyes trained on his wrist. “The area where the line would have been pulses in time with their heart. I may not be able to see it but I can feel that they are there.”

Quid quo pro he had said, had he not? Slowly, his eyes trailed across the room to her. Dark irises taking her in. He languidly reached to grab the neck of the rum bottle. Long fingers toying with the cork. Instead of opening it, he placed the bottle back onto the table. “What drives a woman of high society to piracy?”

That had not been what she expected. While she anticipated something along the lines of why she became a pirate maybe even how she lost her vessel. She had not expected her background to be brought up. Clarke spent years untraining herself from the demands of high society. To slouch when her body screamed for her back to sit straight. To exude authority when society wished to sideline her. To wear trousers when she knew her mother would have a conniption if she saw Clarke owned not a single dress. 

How had she noticed?

Bellamy grabbed an apple off of the platter before him. “I spent years working in the household of a governor. I know what a daughter of high society looks like.” He bite into the apple, eyes challenging her. 

She dropped into one of the mismatched chairs, grabbing the bottle. Taking a large swig of rum, she propped her feet up onto the table. “She loses her son to tuberculosis.”

Immediately, Bellamy sat up straighter. His forearms resting on the surface. “You- what?”

“He would have loved the pirate life. He loved sailing. His tiny fists would reach for the water anytime we stood above a boat’s deck.” The last time he had been on a boat was three months before his untimely death. Her husband had been asked to christen the maiden voyage of the fastest naval ship in their port town. Prior to its departure, the commodore allowed her and her husband to tour the vessel. Her pudgy baby squealing in delight.

Three months later she would be burying the smallest of wooden caskets into the cold, hard ground. After the funeral, her husband took up a post on another island approximately one hour away by sea. She would board a boat to visit him two months after the funeral but she would never reach the port. The boat would be boarded by pirates, captained by the fearsome Charmaine Diyoza. A woman who would see the potential in Clarke, would offer her a position among her crew.

Her husband may believe she died that day. Maybe even that dreadful day where they lost their son. But he never looked for her and she never wrote. It had been a marriage of very little convenience on his part. Losing her more than likely did the lad some good. “My son died. I found the sea during my grieving period.”

She watched as Bellamy raised his hands to rest in front of his lips. Eyes darkening in sorrow and in thought. His pinky finger poked out to trial against the marred flesh of his wrist.

“Do you miss the heartbeat?” She wanted away from their previous topic. Her heart had never truly healed from the ill-fated day.

He shook his head absent-mindedly, his pinky still stroking at the skin. “As I said, I still feel the pulse.” He paused for a moment before gazing back up at her, “I used to believe that the pulse became more prevalent after the incident to make up for no longer being able to see their heartline. Though, it may have been they learned to live again.”

\---

She found a life aboard the _ Damocles _ during the few months it took to reach India. He had a sizable crew and she learned the names of everyone on the ship. Tried to greet them all each day. They spent hours in the sun manning the ship and rigging sails. At night, the crew set up lit small lanterns and set up checkers or chess (Bellamy's preferred past time) on overturned barrels. A few crewmen played small worn instruments while others danced about merrily. There was a commodery she had yet to feel among her own crew, at least not since Diyoza hung up her hat. 

Often, she found herself surrounded by Bellamy and his closest confidants.

Monty Green, the ship’s navigator, could be found huddled over star charts and maps. The boy eagerly detailing the night’s sky movements to anyone who would lend an ear. He had not left the navigation room for eight days when they looted an astrolabe off of a ship near the western coast of Africa. Jasper, the vessel’s main cook, assigned individuals to deliver meals to their cooped up navigator.

Jasper sang shanties day in and day out. Most songs she had never heard before, though she strongly believed the he fabricated each song as he went. She had never heard a pirate sing about the dangers of a banana. Had a pirate informed her of the superstitions surrounding bananas on boats, yes. But never via song. Most nights he could be found above deck cuddling a bottle of rum, humming along to whatever tune the crew played. He possessed his own personal store of alcohol hidden somewhere in the underbelly of the ship. Many a morning she had to rouse Jasper from his hazy sleep - even once having to flip the boy's bunk - to begin prepping for breakfast. The wait out a hurricane, they made port in a small African village for three days. Jasper brought several spices, each unknown to him, from a local vendor. That night he cooked using several of his newest purchases and by morning near the whole crew was in bed sick as a dog.

Miller, the first mate, came off as an enigma. She tried to befriend the male but he rebuffed her advances. Every conversation ending almost as soon as they began with a curt nod and him abruptly departing. Prior to becoming a pirate and prior to Clarke’s marriage, Nathan Miller had spent a summer in her old town after his father, an admiral in the British Royal Navy, was stationed there. During his brief stay, Miller had broken into the Griffin family estate - as well as several other estates on the island. He did not know how to interact with her knowing he sold the heirloom he looted from her home.

It was an ostentatious thing her mother’s mother loved. If he wished to steal it, Clarke had no qualms against that.

She challenged John Murphy to a drinking game during her second night aboard the ship. She drank him under the table, won a bit of coin, and gained a friend.

She spent half the week dining in the mess with the crew and the other half spent dining in the Captain’s Quarters with Bellamy. He made a glib about how even if she was a shipless captain, she was a captain no less and deserved to dine in the quarters. If she commandeered his seat at the head of the table that night, there were no witnesses to the crime.

Then there was the pillaging. Oh how she loved to pillage.

Among the _ Damocles _, she never had to control a pirate. Prevent them from harming those aboard the ship they raided. Never had to fear the blood that would indirectly stain her hands. Very rarely did they board a ship that did not surrender almost immediately to them. The few times the crew resisted, they easily overtook the sailors. Within minutes of boarding you'd be sheathing their cutlasses and shuttling goods to their own ship.

Clarke Griffin, captain of the _ Proxima _ , found a life aboard the _ Damocles _. And dare she say, she was nervous for the day they found her beloved vessel. Therefore she should have realized earlier. The heartbeat on her wrist throbbing excitedly, in pulse with her own heart whenever they would raid a ship. For heaven’s sake, he was the only other person she had met in a long time that had a soulmate. She should have noticed.

She had not noticed until the day Monty called down to them from the crow’s nest that he spotted the back of her beloved _ Proxima _among the grey skies of the impending storm. He would wager we would be on the ship within the hour on the present path. Oddly, Monty emphasized the "present path." Evenly more oddly, the crew began to buzz with excitement at Monty's words.

The _ Damocles _ tossed about in the choppy water, but she remained steady. Bellamy pulled his spyglass from his coat pocket to look out onto the sea. “Your ship awaits.”

He handed over the spyglass as he climbed the few steps up to the quarterdeck, quietly telling Miller to step down. Raising the magnifying glass to her right eye, Clarke stared out at the sea. The red flag of her ship whipped about rapidly in the wind. Her _ Proxima _ rocked dangerously through the stormy waters. If he pressed her any harder, McCreary would capsize. He better not capsize her ship.

Her attention was drawn to the rough waters swirling in a dangerous dance. A maelstrom lay in the shortest distance between the _ Damocles _ and the _ Proxima _. Monty swiftly climbed down the rope ladder from the crow’s nest. Dark eyes alight. Bellamy gripped the helm, an invigorating smirk on his lips. “Gents, and our dear lady,” he tipped his lip of his hat at her, “prepare yourselves. Tie down anything you do not wish to lose.” The crew cheered, racing about the deck. Tossing barrels below, quickly tying down crates. 

They did not expect to sail through the maelstrom, did they? She charged up the steps to the quarterdeck as Bellamy spun the wheel veering from their longer path around the maelstrom. “Are you insane?!”

“A little trick I learned in the Royal Navy.”

“You were never in the Navy!” she yelled, her voice frantic. He planned to sail through that! It was suicidal! “This- this is chaotic!”

He smirked once more, holding the wheel firm. “A little chaos would be good for you.” The ship shifted course. The bow facing the whirlpool. He eyes softened, a low sigh barely audible. “Hide yourself in my quarters. You will be safer down there.”

Fuck that.

She gripped the small bannister lining the front of the quarterdeck as the ship dropped into the whirlpool. She watched as the crew tugged on the rops of the sails, limiting the way the wind hit the fabric. Glancing over her shoulder, she took notice that Bellamy repositioned the wheel. None looked alarmed or frightened. The crew had sailed through a whirlpool before. They trusted Bellamy to get them safely to the opposite side.

She had to look away. Closing her eyes would unsettle her stomach. She needed to focus on something, anything - she glanced down at her wrist. The heartbeat escalated. The line racing across her wrist. She dared a second glance over her shoulder. The proud smirk on Bellamy's lips as he sailed through the maelstrom. The vessel balanced in the waters perfectly so that the force of the storm did not pull them into the water's depths but still far enough into the storm that the weather increased their speed. Euphoria gleaming in his eyes.

Could he?

She had not noticed they escaped the maelstrom until Miller called out, "Ready the cannons!" before dropping to the gun deck.

No, they would only damage her ship. "No!" Clarke yelled, hopping over the railing. Her weight bearing down on her ankles as she landed but she ignored the pain, racing over to the hatch. "Do not fire upon my ship!"

Jasper's head popped up from behind one of the cannons, "Then what do you expect of us?" 

What did she expect?

She opened her mouth to answer, to say something when she heard Bellamy's voice instead. "Prepare to board."

Finding her voice, Clarke instructed to crew to stay away from the ringleader of the mutiny against her. "McCreay is mine!" She would be the one to fight Paxton, to take back her ship. "Fight anyone else you wish but stay away from McCreary."

Crew members looped ropes with hooks knotted firmly at the end to the railing surrounding the starboard. She grabbed one of the ropes, tugging roughly to test whether they were secure. Hoping it would carry her across to her awaiting vessel.

She spotted McCreary instantly, even before she landed on the deck. The weasleyilooking git slinking away to her quarters. She drew her cutlass and charged after him. She hoped he would yield peacefully, that she would not need to fight but McCreary was difficult. Until his final breath he would fight.

Unbeknownst the Clarke, when she stepped through the doors of the Captain's Quarters there were barrels and barrels lining the outerwall. "The deck in coated with alcohol and gunpowder, all leading here." Drawing his pistol with one hand, McCreary raised the weapon at her. The other held up a small lantern. "A captain goes down with her ship correct?"

Had he planned to blow the ship? He saw the _ Damocles _ closing in on them and threatened to destroy the vessel? "Never guessed you'd be on the ship but I'm not complaining."

If he released the lantern, it would land in the trails of gunpowder carrying the ship's floors. She could feel her heart racing anxiously. McCreary would never let them return to the _ Damocles _. Either he killed her now or he killed two pirate crews.

She heard Bellamy yell something, not able to make out the words clearly. Bur from the corner of her eye, she could see his pistol aimed at McCreary. She lunged for the lantern mere seconds before the shot rang out. She successfully pulled it from the other's hand, preventing the lit candle from making contact with the gunpowder. McCreary's body thumped loudly against the wooden floor.

Bellamy raced through the door of the Captain's Quarters. Calloused hands gently cupped her chin, eyes scanning her over. "He would rather blow the ship and the crew than have anyone board him." With a tired smile, she leaned forward. Her forehead coming to rest against his. "Thank you."

"I believe we have a ship to regain."

Honestly, she preferred to sail on the _ Damocles _ , she thought. Let them have the _ Proxima _. When she voiced her opinion, she could not have imagined the smile that radiated from her now captain.

\---

**1943**

The blazing heat beat down on the nurses running back and forth in the 10th Field Hospital. Summer in the Mediterrain was unbearable. For a month, Allied forces laid siege on the island of Sicily. She had been on shift for ten hours at this point; treating patients with an array of ailments ranging from mild heat exhaustion to those suffering from severe cases of malaria. Presently, she checked on those recovering in the main surgery tent. Her mentor had recently returned to the ward after a grueling eight hour surgery trying to careful remove three bullets from a soldier. The second shot had tragically fatally wounded the young man. Her mentor did everything she could to save him.

Two nurses raced a man into the tent on a stretcher. Clarke barely registered the new patient, too busy checking on an eighteen year old with a head wound. When she had a moment to look up, she felt her heart still. No, no, no. She rushed over to the far end of the ward, where lead nurses gathered around the male. Her mentor scrubbed up once more, preparing for emergency surgery.

His heart had been beating as of this morning, slow but still there. Alive. She didn’t dare look down at her wrist. Four days prior, Private First Class Bellamy Blake was deemed missing in action. Her wrist the only indication he was alive somewhere among the wreckage that was Palermo.

Paratrooper, the asshole had to be promoted to a paratrooper.

As she neared the back of the nurses’ ward, she could make out the thin line pulsing erratically on his tanned wrist. One of the nurses gazed down at it in confusion. Clarke pushed her way to the front of the group, demanding someone explain what happened. 

He couldn't die on her.

Bellamy’s head turned slightly, his left ear no longer hidden inside of the pillow. A small, delirious smile on his lips.

Red, all she could see on his chest was dark red. His uniform soaked in blood. She reached a shaky hand out, uncaring that the heartbeat on her right wrist was there for the world to see. Rapid beats racing across her skin. The back of her hand came to rest upon his forehead, the skin scalding to the touch. Deliriousness, fever, increased heart rate, untreated wounds: her best bet would be sepsis. She turned her hand over, letting her cool palm lay flush against his forehead. Her thumb sweeping against his temple. She knew she should pull away, to give the nurses space but this could be the last time she touched him. At last in this lifetime. She needed this.

“Told you I’d be back.” his voice was strained, “We may need to postpone our date.”

Maybe he was not a delirious as she thought, maybe he still had time. The other nurses ripped open the top of his uniform, quickly getting to work while Clarke distracted him from the pain. Her hand never leaving him. “I told you to come back unharmed. Not on a damn stretcher.”

He let out a hoarse chuckle that fed into a loud, cough. A few droplets of blood glistening on his lips, “Just because I’m in the army does not mean I’m good at taking orders.”

God she was going to kill him. She wanted to marry him and then kill him. 

That day in Morocco she should have stamped him 4F. Sent him packing straight back to the middle of nowhere: Iowa. To his mom, to his sister, to his life. 

Instead she cleared his vision for service, as had the doctor back stateside. Though she restricted him from dogfighting. His eyesight too poor for a fighter pilot. For the one thing he wanted out of the army. Their fight in the medical tent became legendary. Their voices resonating throughout the field hospital. She had called him an arrogant knob who could not see that she was saving his life. And she made sure he knew the pun had been intended. He made a comment of how she probably sat in her Manhattan palace her mommy and daddy paid for and decided that joining the army as a nurse medic was a fun thing to do.

She had an apartment in Manhattan her grandmother left to her but he didn't find that out until later.

A little over a week later, they sat together in a Casablanca bar after a successful campaign to siege the port city. Eight days, they sieged Casablancs in eight days. Their colleagues and friends belting _ We'll Meet Again _ off key. Arms slung over each others shoulders. Lips loose with whiskey, he apologized for his rude introduction. Fear of the unknown and the anxiety of being so far from home manifesting in misplaced anger.

She told him of her friend Luna, a beautiful Jewish woman from Munich. The woman's young daughter Madi became Clarke's ward after Luna was killed trying to escape. Usually falsified documents and paying off the right people, Clarke had been able to smuggle the child out of Germany to a small farm in Switzerland. The elderly couple agreeing to board the child for her.

Morocco wasn't the safest for Madi if anyone found out she was Jewish. At the end of the war, Clarke would take the child safely to America.

She remembered his face perfectly. Cheeks pink from alcohol, eyes wide in shock, and jaw hanging loosely. "Now I truly hate what I said."

He told her of his past. Growing up poor, growing up on a failing farm. How their small town all fought over a single cow. The blood cow, they referred to it as. Every family laying claim to the bovine. Fights were not uncommon on their 'main street' over it.

She still had no clue if he was telling the truth or regaling her with the weirdest tale. Either way, he had her in fits of giggles. Her whiskey addled brain contemplating not returning to her own tent that night.

She did return to her own tent.

Or least that night she did.

She hadn't the night the 102nd Infantry Regiment was shipped out of Morocco. They laid together, limbs strune together under a rough blanket on the stiff mattress of his cot. In the morning he was sent to the Alps, but for a night they sat talking of a world without a war. A world where Madi didn't have to live in fear of being outed for her religion.

She liked to believe it was a possible future. The two of them and Madi safely stateside. Whether they were arguing with his neighbors over that damned cow or watching him and Madi try to navigate the bustling streets of New York City. Clarke spent the evening holding back tears, willing herself to keep her breath even. He would be fine. They'd see each other again. She'd see everyone in the 102nd again.

She snuck out well before dawn. Crawling into her own barracks for wake-up and roll call. She hadn't been there to hear his fellow soldiers teasing him all morning. A few faux swooning as they raised their voice. Telling him how they loved him.

She hadn't said it that night nor had he. But in war, you took the moments you could, to find the humor in life. 

Bellamy's body jerk as he violently coughed up blood. A hand came up weakly to cover his mouth. "Sorry." He mumbled, voice garbled.

Clarke let out a dry laugh. The tears princkling at the corner soft her eyes. "No need to apologize love."

"I'm bleeding on your blankets."

Her cracked lips came up to brush against his temple. Months before they were writing letters to one another. His redacted to be approved by the censors. A reminder that danger lurked wherever he was. Not to discount the danger she encountered in the Field Hospitals but each day for a year she spent glancing down at her wrist. Watching the gentle rise and fall, knowing his heart still beat.

Her soul was destined for Bellamy Blake, she'd known that for months. The faint beating line a beacon of hope. Whenever it spiked in fear, she felt her own heart clenching. The rhythm increasing to match his.

His body shook once more as a bloody cough raked over him. "Can we postpone it until the next one?"

Her vision blurred. Tears feeling beginning to fall. "What about tonight? I've never had actual Italian food in Italy."

Medically, she knew Bellamy wouldn't make it until dinner. Maybe not through the hour. But she had to hope. Some soldiers recovered miraculously from wounds or illnesses a textbook would deemed terminal.

The burning against her wrist told her otherwise. The sensation uncomfortable against her skin. A warning sign as to what would happen.

"I've never had seafood before." He tried to get out. Choking on his own blood.

Shaky fingers came up to cup his chin. Over the past four days, a scattering of stumble littered his jaw. "No oysters unless you shave." Had she smiled? She believed she did, but the wavering of her lower lip may have contorted her face into a grimace.

A week ago he was alive and well. Prepping for his first drop as a paratrooper. During his previous campaign, he received a promotion for his dedication, for his hard work mixed with rave recommendations from those who trained him during Basic Training. Becoming a member of the 48th Parachute Infantry Regiment.

A week ago he had told her they were going to dinner on the Italian Coast once they won the campaign. That he loved her. That he wanted to meet Madi.

Yet here he lay in a hospital bed. Her mentor ordered the younger nurses about. Barking out what instruments needed. But Clarke's eyes never left Bellamy. His head lolled to the side as he tried to keep himself from coughing. "No love, let it out. Please."

Dull, scared eyes gazed up at her. Their medicine would not be strong enough to counteract the infection festering. His wounds needed to be tended to days prior. "I love-" He gasped for breath before he could finish his sentence. Her wrist felt scalding. Two fingers from her right hand trailed up his cheek. Gently, she closed his eyes. Her lips brushing against his temple once more. A silent goodbye for now.

She could hear Vera Lynn singing in her head. _ We'll meet again. Don't know where. Don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day. _

And they would. Not in this lifetime, but in the next.

Nurse McIntyre began calling out the time of death but stopped mid-sentence. "Clarke?" The other's voice sounded strangled. The woman's eyes on Clarke's wrist. On the flat line she knew burned into the skin. She had been right when she said Private Bellamy Blake was her soulmate.

Clarke's mentor opened her mouth to ream Nurse McIntyre when she also noticed Clarke's wrist. "Oh."

Walking from the bed, Clarke grabbed a single bandage from a bedside table. She wrapped the material thrice around her wrist. Covering the offending marking. The Great War was supposed to end all wars. There was never to be another reason for young men to fight, yet here Bellamy lay. A victim of a second world war. His mother and his sister sitting at home unaware of the grievance letter they'd receive shortly in the mail. A letter that would bring them to their knees.

"Clarke." Her mentor started, voice quiet. "Why don't you head back to your tent for the night?"

Turning on her heel, Clarke leveled her mentor with a glare. Tear streaks staining her cheeks. She wanted Clarke to leave the ward after one soldier died. "I have two more hours of my shift. I've never been sent to my tent after losing a patient before."

She felt as if she could hear what her mentor wished to say. That none of those other young soldiers had been Clarke's other half.

"I have two more hours of my shift." She mumbled.

Come the end of her shift, she knew she should have taken her mentor up on her offer. That the woman tried to be gentle, but her mentor's dismissal of all the other lives lost to the war made her snap. Bellamy would have been annoyed at the implication as well. That she should leave to mourn her fallen love but who would leave to mourn the others in the hospital beds eternally slumbering. Their family wouldn't know the news for weeks.

Maybe it was just her anger at the cruelty of fate that made her think that. Fate let her find her soulmate and within a year tore him from her. 

In the next life, they better meet young and they better live until the ripe age of two hundred to make up for this injustice.

Slipping her heels off in the breakroom, one of the younger nurses snuck through the door. Her right hand shoved into the bloodstained pocket of her apron. The girl shifted uncomfortably. Rocking from one foot to the other. She didn't blame the girl. She was only recently shipped to their ward; Bellamy was the first patient she witnessed pass. The blood probably scarring her.

The girl stalked across the room, raising her right fist from the pocket. Holding it up the whole way across the room. "Private Blake's tag ma'am." Her voice wavered as she presented Clarke with the dogtags.

The moment the metal touched her palms, covering the skin in red Clarke broke down.

\---

In the fall of 1945, she found passage to the middle of nowhere Iowa for herself and her daughter. To a small town finally healing from the disaster that was the Dust Bowl, let alone a second world war.

She hadn't had the chance to attend the funeral. Hadn't watched as a small town stood around a six foot deep hole as they laid one of their sons into the earth. The dogtags weighed heavy in her pockets. She meant to mail them to his mother. Typically, the fallen soldier's next of kin had been the ones to receive the tags but never had they had the soulmate of a fallen soldier witness their soulmate's death. The colonel on the base, an older man named Kane with a soft spot for Private Blake may have allowed for Clarke to keep the dogtags. At least under the stipulation, she'd be the one to return them in person to his family.

She stalked through the wrought iron gates of the cemetery, passing small stone markers. Madi's small gloved hand tucked into hers.

His gravestone barely larger than two bricks stacked atop each other. She kneeled beside the stone, placing a small bouquets of red poppies on the ground. Madi gently placed a small framed picture of Bellamy against the stone. The photograph taken by a war photographer when he was in the Alps. She had no clue war photographers existed until Monty drunkenly mentioned it during their private memorial service tucked into a back booth in that bar in Casablanca with three other soldiers: Privates Jordan, Miller, and Murphy. All brothers in arms Bellamy had found during his service. 

"Bellamy Blake meet Madi Griffin."

  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm Shen-Gong-Oops on Tumblr. You can yell about how I killed my boy Bellamy Blake.
> 
> I hadn’t meant for the first reincarnation to end not too far from where the second one begins but oh well. Also I really want to watch _Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl_ now. And Goodman is like the 16th century version of Mr. Or so I’ve come to understand.
> 
> For clarification or if you missed them, the three forehead touches were  

> 
>   1. Bellamy tapping two fingers to Jacob’s forehead as he explained soulmates
>   2. Clarke resting her forehead on Bellamy’s
>   3. Clarke taking Bellamy’s temperature in the nurse’s ward
> 
>   



End file.
